


kiss you in bites/under the tree where you dropped

by Etherea



Series: Morderstwo Uda [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ALL the tags, Accidental Plot, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apples, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Blow Jobs, Bodice-Ripper, Complete, Eventual Smut, Everybody Lives, Except It's Pants That Get Ripped, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Uses His Words, Gratuitous Smut, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Mentioned Roach (The Witcher), Not Beta Read, Oil, Pants, Porn, Porn With Plot, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Roach Ships It (The Witcher), Roach is So Done (The Witcher), Scent Kink, Sexy Triage, Smut, The Author Regrets Nothing, Thighs, Thiiiiiighs, Tree Climbing, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), murder thighs, no beta we die like renfri, sexy thighs, why am i like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24287950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etherea/pseuds/Etherea
Summary: "A good apple is nature sculpting sunlight into sugar, it’s...it’s art!"
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Morderstwo Uda [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1814152
Comments: 57
Kudos: 243





	1. Say I were to hold you in my hand/like an apple/round and red

“Bloody...fucking...come on....you bastard little...things!” Jaskier grunted out a word or two with every breath expended, until at last he ceased jousting with the apple tree. He let drop the discarded limb he’d been using to shake the higher limbs, and huffed at his companion reclined by their campfire. “Lot of bloody help you’ve been!” 

Geralt quirked an eyebrow and took a lazy bite of his own apple. “There’s plenty on the ground.” As expected, Jaskier bent almost backwards, squawking in indignation.

“I don’t _want_ an apple off the ground, Geralt. I want _that_ one!” He gestured upwards to an apple that did, in all fairness, look like the very ideal of apple-ness. “The amount of time we spend fussing about for just the right yam daisy blossoms for your bloody potions, you think you could get off your arse and help me get fuel for another ballad. A good apple is nature sculpting sunlight into sugar, it’s...it’s _art_! It’s worth working for!” 

By the sound of Geralt’s continued chewing, his poetic pleading had not made a dent. Turning to Roach, he threw his hands up in the air. “Can you have a word with that beast? I simply cannot be having with him today.” 

Roach, too, chewed laconically on one of the many fallen apples. Jaskier rolled his eyes, and ambled back to the trunk of the apple tree, complaining about wolves and horses not knowing the value of a good apple. 

“It’s my good fortune, I suppose, that apple trees are among the easiest to climb,” he opined to no-one in particular. “Particularly this old girl. Gnarled and twisted though she may be, for an apple tree that is simply a sign that her fruit is good and her wood strong!” On and up he went, bestowing praise on the tree in the hopes that her branches would not tip him off unexpectedly. In a Witcher’s company, one learned to treat all living things with respect. There was no telling what they might turn out to be - troll, dragon, ancient beautiful witch cursed to live as a tree until a lucky adventurer plucked the cursed apple from her branches, at which point she would lavish said adventurer with enthusiastic thanks for days on end.

Well. A bard could dream, and if his dreams turned out to be just that, he could write a song and give his adoring fans the torment of the same unachievable dream.  
  
At last, there it was, within reach. He extended a steady hand towards it. Not the time for nerves. Not if he was to free a beautiful woman from an enchantment, or at the very least, to get his hands on the best bloody apple he’d ever seen. 

As he plucked it, several things happened. None of them involved sexy women. 

Below him came shouts and shrieks. Though the apple tree obscured far more of the scene below than he expected, there were enough points of movement visible through the leaves to indicate the presence of visitors to their campsite. That was rarely a happy occasion. Most travellers kept to themselves, and hoped others would do the same. Bandits, however, had no such manners. 

Knowing all too well how much use he was in a brawl, Jaskier stayed on his branch. He would protect his apple and wait for all the unpleasantness to be over. Never bring a lute to knife fight - the very best outcome you can hope for is to distract your attacker until a more competent fighter kills them. The worst, a ruined lute. Oh, and death, of course. 

It was almost a pleasure to watch Geralt fight, insofar as it can be to watch a friend in such peril as these desperate and unskilled bandits presented. He moved like he spoke; direct and economical, choosing to stun where he could, but killing when it was expedient. As the opponents fell or fled, the slight hiccough in his heart settled. Geralt was shaking his head in the wake of a cudgel blow that would have flattened a lesser skull. " _Not my Witcher’s, though!"_ Jaskier preened to himself, proud and sweet as punch. 

Geralt’s full attention was focused on the wielder of the aforementioned cudgel. Geralt had him by the collar, growling into his ear some no doubt terrifying warnings about the wages of crime, which were pain. His head must truly have been rattled, because he gave no indication that he heard the final bandit sneak out from behind the apple tree to advance on him. No sooner had Jaskier seen the twin daggers pointed at his dear friend’s undefended back, than he was dropping out of the apple tree and onto the would-be sneak attacker’s shoulders.

Having achieved his goal of distracting the bandit, Jaskier looked down at the head now sandwiched between his thighs. He had no weapons save his apple (which would simply _never_ do enough damage, even if he _were_ willing to sacrifice it.) The quarry betwixt his legs, however, _did_ have a weapon. A dagger. And ample access to the big blood vessels that ran up the inner thighs. Oh, as usual, dear.

* * *

  
  
It wasn’t clear to anyone involved who was making what noises. A neutral observer, perhaps one munching on sweet apples and grass across the way while her companions made noise and fuss, could have told you that it was as follows;

Jaskier’s shout came first; he intended for it to be an intimidating roar, but landing across the scapulae of an unsuspecting enemy was not for the faint of heart or delicate of constitution. The man he had, well, _mounted_ , yelped the shrill exultation of a man with no idea why he is in such serious and sudden discomfort, and dropped one of his daggers. The bandit in Geralt’s grasp squeaked as he tore away and fled, leaving a part of his collar with Geralt, who emitted a very specific and curious growling sound as he turned to see what was going on.

* * *

_The bard was an idiot. Truly. And being too far for the Witcher to reach in the eyeblink it would take for that dagger to sink into his meat, he’d soon be a dead idiot. Did the golden eyes show any of the torment howling in his chest? Did he look calm on the outside as his innards roiled, watching as though from behind glass as Destiny and Death came to claim yet another of the rare individuals who could coax from him the instincts and emotions so few believed he possessed?_

_  
The bandit struck._

_The blade curved through the air.  
  
And Jaskier **tumbled**. _   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow all this plot got in the way of my porn. Chapter 2 can be unlocked through judicious application of attention in the form of comments and kudos. Toss a coin to your author!
> 
> Niche convergence of interests: yam daisies are also known as native Dandelions in Australia :3


	2. you reached up/in cool shadow/and bit back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt had seen a lot of bodies fall in a lot of ways. He’d been the cause of most such displays. They were rarely beautiful, except occasionally in a stark, ‘scarlet blood on otherwise unspoiled snow’ way. 
> 
> It was so like Jaskier to look dramatic and beautiful even as he died.

Jaskier and the bandit tumbled, but did not... _fall_ , exactly.  
  
Geralt had seen a lot of bodies fall in a lot of ways. He’d been the cause of most such displays. They were rarely beautiful, except occasionally in a stark, ‘scarlet blood on otherwise unspoiled snow’ way. 

It was so like Jaskier to look dramatic and beautiful even as he died. 

Under less dire circumstances it might have bordered on amusing, the two men moving as though they were one impossibly tall being. They rolled forward, Jaskier’s body curling over to land first, whipping the bandit in an arc to land with a dull thud and crack. Despite having doubted his own pace, Geralt was upon them mere moments after both bodies hit the dirt. He drove his sword down as he skidded to a halt, the steel crunching wetly through the bandit’s chest, and wrestled Jaskier’s legs away from the dead man’s head. His hands delved into the hot blood, seeking its source, hoping against hope that he might yet stem the tide and save his friend. 

“Ger…” 

The forest was almost silent, nearby animals having fled at the sounds of the skirmish, or he’d never have heard the weak plea. Jaskier tried to lever himself up onto his elbows, and Geralt pushed him back down flat.

“Hold still. Keep your heart to the ground. Can’t find the wound.” One hand probed Jaskier’s flesh from knee to groin, the other still braced on the bard’s chest, ignoring further hoarse exhortations. But the blood was growing cold, time running out, and he could not see anything in this fucking _mess._ Too impatient for laces, he took both hands to the waistband of Jaskier’s breeches and tore them down the side seams. 

Beneath, the hose and smallclothes were unmarked. No blood. No wound. He lifted the meat of each thigh to verify, and they were reassuringly warm beneath the cold, tacky blood that now coated his hands

Finally, he looked up at Jaskier, who, having succeeded in propping himself up, cleared his throat.

“Geralt. I was just winded. It’s not my blood.”

It was not Jaskier’s blood. Jaskier was not dying. Good. To express his relief at this discovery, along with a host of other long-buried emotions now asserting themselves, Geralt surged up from his position between the blessedly unstabbed legs to press a grateful, angry, _toothy_ kiss to his bard’s warm, alive, surprised mouth. His vigour had them both collapsing back down to the earth, bodies pressed together from lips to hips, a thigh still clutched in each of Geralt’s bloody hands. When he drew back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead to Jaskier’s and affirm flatly, “You’re not dead,” before biting back down for another long and reassuring kiss. Each scrape of teeth and sweep of tongue had the man beneath him squirming. Gasping. Moving. _Alive._  
  
When they eventually drew apart, the Witcher’s expression asked a million silent questions, and a breathless Jaskier gestured at the bandit’s corpse by way of an answer to them all. Geralt pulled away, noting the displeased groan his departure drew forth, and inspected the nearby body. 

It was not his sword, as he’d thought, that had slain the nameless bandit. Closer inspection showed that the knife had been diverted into its wielder’s own throat. The source of all that distressing blood, evidently. If that had not been enough to put an end to his career of banditry, Geralt also noted the strange lolling of his head, and jostled it with his foot to confirm a blooming suspicion. Yes, one of the upper vertebrae was dislocated from its fellows. He looked back and down at Jaskier with another silent interrogative glare. 

Jaskier, the bastard, _shrugged._ “I trained with some acrobats for a few months. I taught them stringed instruments, they taught me some tricks. Ladies who make their living doing the splits in skintight costumes for crowds of leering strangers know a thing or two about defending themselves. You don’t get between a pair of thighs like that unless you’ve permission or a deathwish. I - mmph!”  
  
What ever else Jaskier had been about to say, it was muffled by another kiss as the Witcher fell upon him once again. Geralt reveled in the sounds, even muted as they were by the joining of their flesh, and wondered if he would soon go back to finding the bard’s incessant noises irritating now that he viewed them as a reassurance instead of a disruption to the peace of his days. As he pressed their hips together, his brain suddenly connected several of those noises.  
  
Thighs. Permission. 

He hadn’t _asked_ .  
  
Geralt shoved off the ground, pushing himself back and staying low, letting his kneeling stance and averted gaze convey his contrition. He heard Jaskier’s curses, and scrambling noises he assumed had to do with removing a half-unmade pair of breeches over his fussy boots. 

“Gods curse these fucking...look, Geralt, you can’t...you can’t just...are you happy to see me or _not_ , confound you?! Right, fuck off, green pants, you’re done for. You, you broad, baffling _brute_ , one minute you’re administering the most erotic triage I’ve ever had the pleasure to receive, the next you’re... _on_ me! And now you look like you’re headed to the gallows and eager for the drop. Is there a potion that’ll loosen your bloody tongue? I mean. Not, _loosen,_ loosen, I was feeling about loosened enough for _ten_ men and that was _nice_ and now you’re...what? Do...do you regret what you...what we just…”

By the end of his meandering outburst, Jaskier was on his feet in shirt, boots, and plain linen underthings, hand on hips. It was a sight that would have had Geralt rolling in the dust with laughter, had he not been imploding with guilt. He growled, and could _hear_ the rolling of those blue eyes. 

“That isn’t going to do the trick this time, Geralt. Your tongue and I are quite familiar now, so I feel very comfortable giving it directions. _Use. Your. Words.”_ _  
_ _  
_ Geralt shifted to and fro, opening and closing his mouth a time or two. It was clear enough to _him_ . Why did Jaskier need to hear him say it? _Because I didn’t ask,_ that same reprimand came to him.  
  
“Yes. I regret,” he began, and Jaskier made the same noise as he had all those years ago after the first time Geralt had hurt him. Gasping, gut-punched and stumbling. Geralt gritted his teeth. This is why he didn’t use fucking _words,_ curse it all. He couldn’t aim them like he could a sword; he always cut where he hadn’t meant to. He continued quickly, “I regret taking. Not...asking.”  
  
Jaskier’s noises, still wordless, were now quizzical. Jaws clenched, the Witcher searched for words to fill the expectant void.  
  
“I did not ask permission.”

The long silence that followed fell on him, a wordless and deserved admonition. Beyond the silver curtain of his hair, he saw boots and then naked legs as Jaskier closed the gap between them. A calloused fingertip under his chin urged his head to tilt up, which he allowed. Gold eyes met blue, and it was a great relief to find laughter there. Jaskier’s hands were warm at his temples.

“My friend, you took nothing that I have not freely offered you every day of our journeys together. Be it bread, pleasure, or deadly skill, you may avail yourself of anything in my pants at your leisure. Or mine, I suppose. I can’t wait to see what else that tongue can do.”

Geralt’s frown was smoothed away by the sweep of long, gentle thumbs, but worries still clamoured to be spoken.  
  
“I could kill you if I’m not careful.”

Jaskier laughed, replying, “Try it, Witcher. I’m well defended,” and squeezed his thighs together meaningfully. The laughter deepened at Geralt’s happy, hungry growl, and was silenced only when he was pulled to his knees and thoroughly kissed once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2/3 of a fic that started as a single chapter. Sorry not sorry! 
> 
> ...I'm a bit sorry.
> 
> It keeps getting longer! (that's what she said!)
> 
> _wHY AM I LIKE THIS okay I swear chapter 3 will be the last, and will contain the promised smut._


	3. I’d laugh/knowing dreams ask like this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their knees together they made soft noises into each others’ mouths, like two penitent men sharing quiet, desperate prayers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This _has_ to be the last chapter, I’m running out of poem to use as chapter titles. At last, the promised smut!

“Geralt. GERALT.” Grumbling in protest, the Witcher paused at the sound of his name and sought the blue eyes and his next instruction.  
  
“As much as I’m enjoying this, and I think both you and my penis can agree that I am, I think we ought to clean up a tad. I plan to treasure for many years the memory of the first time I take you, so I’d rather ease the way with something more pleasant than congealed bandit blood.” Jaskier truly did look remorseful at having to stop, but he gestured at his cold legs and general state of disarray by way of justification.  
  
Chastened, Geralt scooped up his half-naked companion, startling a whoop from him. Depositing him by the fire, he then filled the bard's hands with a steaming pannikin of water and a washcloth. Thank the gods for well-established camp routines; their cast iron kettle had nestled undisturbed in the coals while all the violent and sexy drama played out. He watched momentarily as Jaskier cleaned the crusted blood from his skin, hesitating momentarily at what Geralt could see were his own fingerprints in the pattern of red and brown. Plenty of time to get more of them on him.  
  
At the edge of the clearing, grunting and thumping heralded the removal of their fallen foes from the immediate area. Geralt was almost done moving corpses. Night had fallen proper now, and their unwelcome guests would be seen to in due time. The forest’s creatures had begun to return and add their noises to the evening’s chorus. No wolf litter or weasel gang would starve this week. Guilt was not a thing he felt after killing, save for rare exceptions, and he’d always been careful not to leave wild places in a state to cause him regret later. Evil was a matter of perspective, but carelessly fouling a region’s water source was surely towards the ‘greater’ end of the spectrum. 

Geralt wondered if he should have ignored the bard’s request to clean up before they proceeded. Should have fucked him there in the dirt, bloody hands pulling roughly on skin until the heat between them was as wet as it was filthy. They could have written it off as dispelling the post-battle charge in their veins, however insignificant the conflict had been. The somatic expression of brotherhood, familiar to any men who had huddled together long enough in a trench or bivouac. Pooling kindling and kisses to keep warm against the winds of war that nipped icily at the skin of one’s heart even in the stink of summer. Too late for such excuses now. Light and time had reduced the world to the circle of their firelight, and whatever happened next would be conscious and intentional. If he looked up and saw pity, or apprehension, he’d be on horseback and gone before he could further ruin the longest friendship he’d had outside the School of the Wolf. He was half tempted to run anyway - better to pretend he could have been wanted in cold blood than to have a foolish spark of hope extinguished outright - but the memory of those lips yielding under his, _and kissing him back,_ burned bright in his mind. Bright enough to give him the courage to look up.

Jaskier was the very picture of seduction, lying on his side draped in a plain linen sheet which disguised his form, if not his arousal. Geralt had been high on the smell of lust since the first kiss, and something hard in his chest dissolved at the confirmation that it was coming from _both_ of them _._ The bedrolls had been laid out, and a small jar placed next to them; doubtless it was something more pleasant than bandit blood. He noted with approval the sheathed dagger next to Jaskier’s side; nothing like a late afternoon blitz attack to reinforce the lesson that one must always keeping a weapon within arms reach. He walked stiffly around to the opposite side of the bedroll where he’d laid his swords and pauldrons down before dealing with the bodies. Jaskier rolled over, hungry blue eyes meeting golden, and opened his mouth as if to speak.

A heavy cloud of unsaid words gathered over them, and Geralt feared what would be laid bare once that storm finally broke and washed away the last thin pretences between them. His eyes implored Jaskier not to bring that rain down on them. To let this be a time where their bodies could speak, so that he might not be at such a disadvantage as when they sparred with words. 

For once, Jaskier understood and complied without protest.

Boots shed and breeches unlace, Geralt held his breath as Jaskier rose to his knees to guide each leg free. The sheet fell away. It seemed neither of them had wavered in their desires during the interlude. Warm wetness enveloped one hand, and he glanced down, thinking it seemed a little soon in the proceedings for that. Oh. Washcloth. He hadn’t gotten around to washing his hands. The fire’s bright flame spoke to it being freshly fed, and still-steaming heat of the water was further evidence of how Jaskier had occupied himself while the heavy lifting was taken care of. Preparing to do this, to wash blood and dirt from a Witcher’s hands, on his knees like a dedicate pledging service to Melitele. The cloth, a scrap of erstwhile shirt repurposed when it was beyond repair, may as well have been woven from fresh nettles for the way the touch burned his skin. The bard’s gentle movements and the ghosting of his breath across Geralt’s groin was enough to have him dropping onto his bare knees on the bedroll, instinctively suppressing a grimace as aching joints and old scars protested his haste. 

Down here, closer to Jaskier’s face, he could feel the younger man shaking with his own suppressed tensions. A flash of firelight on the strong slender fingers showed two shining brighter than the rest, and Geralt’s nostrils flared as he scented the air inquisitively. Almond oil: Good for protecting against burns in the glare of snowy ranges or heat of the desert sun. Hydrating. Multipurpose. Slick. He’d even thoughtfully decanted a small jar of oil from a larger bottle so as not to taint the whole supply. Geralt sniffed again, and there it was - beneath the sweat and peppery anticipation, interwoven with soap and turpentine from caring for a lute, and the boozy cider scent of the bard's body itself, came a thread of almond. He had _prepared_. Here, in the light, if Geralt had only dared to look up from his grunt work. Imagining that he could have glanced across the clearing to see his companion, bent double, fingers oiled up and working himself loose in anticipation, had Geralt pushing away the cup and cloth to capture those impudent lips again. On their knees together they made soft noises into each others’ mouths, like two penitent men sharing quiet, desperate prayers. 

Geralt’s every breath was a growl now, punctuated by wet noises as he moved to lavish his friend’s flank with attention, each touch of his mouth half kiss, half bite. He pushed Jaskier backwards, any worry about overuse of force quelled by the filthy groan the move elicited, and fell to the task of devouring the length of him, swallowing him down like a potion to fortify himself somehow. Reaching over to the side, he found the jar of almond oil by touch and swirled his fingers in it. The Witcher pulled his hand back heedless of the mess he left in the sheet below, reaching under where his chin bumped on each downward pass, and pressed his dripping fingers in. From somewhere above him came a cry, and hands pulling at his hair. 

Maybe the singing would still be tiresome, but he would never tire of _these_ noises. Wordless pleas, fragments of his name, punctuated by Jaskier’s fingers against his scalp and hips jolting up to push deeper into his throat. Geralt growled again, and felt the vibrations with his fingers as he worked them in, slow easy twists, deep and fast thanks to the bard’s forethought. He added a third, and the hands pulled more insistently until the sensation almost approached pain. Taking it as his cue, he released Jaskier’s length - doubtless the sudden touch of cool spring air on wet and wanton flesh was the cause of the strangled cry that followed - and moved up to quiet that babbling mouth while scarred hands helped his own neglected cock find its way inside the heat of Jaskier’s body.

Geralt set a pace as slow and steady as his own mutated heartbeat. His hips moved only as far as necessary to keep the frictional warmth alive. Everywhere else that they touched, he held Jaskier close, like their skin was fused, never wanting to lose contact. Both breathed unvoiced syllables, an occasional groan from low in the throat or shaken loose from the vault of their sinuses, each lost in the reverie of pulse and heat and the sounds of their coupling. The bard’s breaths began to hitch, and Geralt opened his eyes in anticipation, hoping to see the moment he came apart. He was displeased to see the face below set in an expression less of expectant bliss, and closer to something like anguish. Jaskier’s eyes were smooth riverstones, their blues washed out to grey in the warm firelightlight, and shining with glossy, unshed tears. Geralt froze, which seemed to prompt noises of distress, and cradled one round cheek just firmly enough to set the tears spilling over.  
  
“What’s wrong? Am I hurting you? Must we stop?” The next stuttering inhale came out as a proper sob when the shaking body beneath him exhaled.  
  
“No! Don’t stop! It’s not...not hurting. It’s too much. Not enough. I need…” Jaskier closed his eyes, gulping in air as another wave of tears dripped out the corners, and opened them again. “More. I need more. If you keep fucking me like a metronome, I will die before I come. This isn’t the hokey pokey, Geralt! If we’re going to dance, let’s dance!”  
  
Any protests at being called some sort of gnome died on the Witcher’s pale lips as the much-discussed thighs clamped around his torso, and he found himself tumbled over, half off the bedroll and perilously close to the fire. Jaskier murmured more nonsense, “ _and a-one, two three_ ,” and with a shift of his hips sank down as far as humanly possibly, taking Geralt’s full length along with his ability to form sentences. Whatever dance Jaskier was doing now was not one he’d learned on a noble dancefloor. Hopefully. The choreography was all grunting and writhing, and when the brunette threw his head back with an ecstatic cry, Geralt ran a hand up the shuddering midline of his lithe body to grasp at his exposed throat. He thrust up, exploring, and felt the wrecked noise quavering out of the vocal cords where they pressed against his palm. Jaskier fucked like he walked, hips swaying, hands in constant motion to emphasise his points. His nails, long and toughened from years of picking at the strings of his lute, carved a shallow pattern in Geralt’s chest, who hissed at the bright lines of pain burning where the rest of his body was merely warmed with pleasure. He grasped Jaskier’s hips in reply, bracing his feet against the dirt and arcing up into the him until the bard lost all contact with the ground, his tense knees anchoring him to Geralt’s ribcage as he fucked unceasingly into him.  
  
Between the warmth of being buried inside his friend - what an inadequate word for whatever this day had forged them into - and the friction of their bodies where their skin had not been still or bare since they resumed their coupling, Geralt was sure he’d burst into flames at any moment. The warning smell of singed leg hair signalled exactly how close they had come to the campfire, but neither showed any sign of noticing nor of stopping to move away. Their noises were as wild and animal as the unseen beasts who he could hear gathering to take apart the bandit bodies. A snarling scuffle broke out as somewhere beyond his fire-ruined night vision some beasts fought for salvage rights. Let them have the scraps; Geralt’s prize was right here. 

* * *

Jaskier’s head tipped forward with a sob, tears again studding his lashes, the warm colour of the fire coruscating where they clung to his lashes, and in the glossy smears of his spend as it sprayed across his abdomen and dripped lewdly down onto Geralt below. The clench of his muscles drew forth a deeper growl and short, sharp movements. As the waves of pleasure abated and his tension released, so too did the cock pistoning inside him. Jaskier mewled, overfull at the sensation of Geralt’s spend inside him, certain he would burst with it. He slumped forward, quivering as they came back to earth and messily decoupled. Broad hands released their bruising grip on his waist. His body shuddering, he mumbled happy nonsense when the hands moved instead to slide firmly over his back, rubbing warmth into as-yet untouched skin and setting it to twitching like a steed beset by marchflies.  
  
“I want to feel you shake like that next time I’m inside you.” Jaskier felt the words as much as heard them, pressed as he was against the other’s neck, and yet more tremors shook him as the words reverberated down to the fluttering place beneath his ribs, where his hopes roosted. 

“Next time?” His soft question was answered with an embrace that pulled him still harder against that broad and unyielding chest, squeezing the air from his lungs, and with it, his other questions.

A sharp crunch, too close and sudden for comfort, had them both diving for their weapons and searching for the source. It turned out to be Roach, her muzzle working as she devoured - 

“My apple!” Geralt guffawed at Jaskier’s woebegone exclamation, and kissed the resulting pout into submission. 

* * *

“When I write the song of this," pondered Jaskier, "should it be a maiden tumbler who saves and beds you? Or perhaps a bit about a magic tree prison, a witch set free from her curse to guard your back and drop your trousers. I dare say I could spin a memorable line or two about wood, blossoms, crisp flesh.” 

Geralt kissed that treacherous mouth and murmured into it, “Stray one hair from the truth and _I’ll_ kill you with _my_ thighs.” At the reply of “Witcher, you do that daily,” he growled and began their tussling anew. Shivers transformed into fresh waves of heat that chased out the aches from their bones and had them rutting against each other once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuuuuuh so yeah, turns out this was almost exactly equal parts porn and plot. Who knew I had that in me. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who encouraged me to keep at this! Feedback on the sexy tiems words most appreciated, I'm always nervous that others won't find alliteration and florid adjectives quite as arousing as I do. 
> 
> Chapter 3/4 but it's completed?!?! I miiiiight have outlined a little coda for you, we'll see how that goes. 
> 
> Pannikin: tin cup, but I prefer the way this word sounds


	4. swallow by swallow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Of all the delightful things I did with my thighs last night, the one currently occupying your thoughts is murder? Right, that’s it’s, we must stop here and set up camp so I can fuck you sensible. In fact, forget camp, I’ll do you here on the road. Turn and face the forest, Roach, there’s a good love.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A final little conversation, and perhaps a taste of things to come. Do let me know in the comments if you enjoyed it and want to read more.

They both walk the next day. Jaskier, because he cannot fathom sitting astride anyone or anything just yet. Geralt claims that Roach needs a rest rather than admit he feels remorse. They both know he actually can’t bear the guilt of making Jaskier walk faster than is comfortable. Like the apples, they had not been able to stop at one taste. Jaskier plays idly as they walk, tuneless noises, occasionally humming some unvoiced lyric to himself. Geralt has been thinking and makes a noise to indicate that he has finished.  
  
“Hmm.”

“Yes, darling?” Geralt rolls his eyes at the endearment, and tries not to feel it, warm like an ember, in his chest. 

“Mmm."

“If you continue to be monosyllabically nonsensical, I must warn you that you will have to suffer the consequences of my own highly biased translation. I believe that last grunt was something about...pink leather?” At that, the Witcher’s mind goes white, words and images both stricken from his imagination. He briefly weighs the merits of calling such a ridiculous bluff, until he remembers that when it comes to fashion, Jaskier has _no_ limits and is _never_ bluffing.

“The man you killed.” Now it is Jaskier’s turn to wipe clean the slate of his mind. 

“Of all the delightful things I did with my thighs last night, the one currently occupying your thoughts is _murder?_ Right, that’s it’s, we must stop here and set up camp so I can fuck you sensible. In fact, forget camp, I’ll do you here on the road. Turn and face the forest, Roach, there’s a good love.” 

“It wasn’t your first.”

“Dear sweet Witcher, broad of chest and dense of skull, if yours had been the first cock I took, it may have killed me. How long has it been? Do you know how you compare to mortal men? Here’s a hint: about as well as the other parts of you compare, and I’m referring here to both your vocabulary and your eyes of gold.”

“Your first kill.”

The lute, whose music had continued throughout their relatively one-sided bickering, fell silent. So did Jaskier, which felt to Geralt like a miracle, albeit an inconveniently timed one. He waited, walking in the silence. He knew Jaskier would break first. It took about a minute for the bard to speak.

“No.” 

Geralt grunted. “Now who’s monosyllabic?” 

Another minute passed. 

“How did you know?” Geralt looked sideways at him, but Jaskier was staring resolutely ahead. His hands gripped the neck of his lute like a strangler, and Geralt almost asked if that’s how he’d done it.

“Most folks, they have a bit of a crisis, the first time. Vomit or faint. I had you pegged for a fainter.” That brings a startled laugh, and the hint of a smile, which Geralt will not admit to being relieved about.

“No, I was a vomiter,” responds Jaskier, before he falls silent again. The silence as they walk is more awkward than usual. A hundred questions clamour to be asked. Geralt schools himself to calm, the practice of a century meditating easily settling his mind. He waits, but no jokes, jibes, or anecdotes fill the silence.

* * *

It’s not until they’re camped again, when Geralt is curled around Jaskier like dragon on its hoard, that the bard offers more information. “Two. I’ve killed two other people.”   
  
Geralt is careful not to change his hold. He stays, breathing steadily, and brushes a thumb across Jaskier’s collarbone to indicate that he is awake and listening. “Mmm?”

“Some other time, perhaps.” He twists in Geralt’s hold to face him. Their fire has died down to low, slow coals, and without the flames’ warmth his cheeks are ruddy from the cold. Geralt lays a palm on one side of his face, and Jaskier sighs at the pressure. Some lines of tension ease away. “They are not happy memories.”

“If you had happy memories of murder I would be concerned.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I think that last one had its charms."

  
 _Well,_ thinks Geralt, _he has a point there._

**Author's Note:**

> (No smut in chapter 1. Rated E for Chapter ~~2~~ 3\. I got there eventually!)
> 
> Title from [this poem](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/57892/apples-56d23bcba732c)
> 
> "Oh, as usual, dear," is a Giles quote. One of my favourites. 
> 
> Loosely inspired by this quote from a Geraskier group I'm in: "jaskier walks a lot, right. so that means he doesn't skip leg day." Hi FB louts! Don't tell my mum I write this sort of thing :P


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